Twenty Pieces of Silver
by Ani-maniac494
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Clint Barton is a rising circus star, 'The Amazing Hawkeye, The World's Greatest Marksman.' But his older brother Barney has plans of his own. AU. Now continuing. Eventual Clint/Natasha, Natasha POV.
1. Chapter 1

Spoilers: No real spoilers for the Avengers, some small references to comic characters.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers, but my birthday is in August, so I'm hopeful.

A/N: I'm borrowing a couple comic characters for this - Barney, Clint's older brother, and Trickshot, his mentor - though I have never read the comics themselves. I'm basing the characters on the few small details I know, but if anything is different, this is already an AU. :) The rest is all from my imagination.

As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace, and his many blessings.

I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

* * *

**Twenty Pieces of Silver**

The tent was dark.

The only actual light filtered through gaps where the flaps didn't quite meet, and it flickered as the tarps waved back and forth with the breeze. It was quiet too, except for the rustling of the canvas, and the muffled sounds of the nearby crowd.

Barney scowled.

The show had ended fifteen minutes ago, but the carnival surrounding the big top was usually enough to keep the venders in business for a few hours more, and anyone who wasn't helping with that was busy with the post-show clean-up. That meant they wouldn't have to worry about interference for a while yet.

Still, Clint better turn up soon.

Barney had promised that he could handle his little brother, and he didn't want to look like an idiot who couldn't get a sixteen-year-old to cooperate. Besides, he wasn't sure if he would get a second chance to make good on his end of the bargain. Russians were known to be hardnosed, and when he'd arranged the meet, his contact had warned him that these guys were serious players.

He'd questioned that when he'd first seen the guy he was supposed to be dealing with. The slim, gray-haired man with a charcoal business suit and glasses hardly seemed like someone the Russian Mafia would be wary of. But none of that mattered to Barney as long as the guy was interested, and he was. He'd come to watch the show three nights in a row. He must have been satisfied by what he'd seen, because he'd called Barney to make an offer right after that.

Hashing out the contract had been the easy part. Figuring out how to pull it off had been a little more difficult, but in the end, Barney had gone with the direct approach:

"_Meet me in the supply tent right after the show."_

_Clint frowned. "Why?"_

"_I'll explain later. Just do it."_

Clint had agreed, saying he'd head straight there as soon as Trickshot cut him loose. Kid had an annoying habit of screwing up whatever good thing Barney had going, but that, at least, was a gonna change after this.

If he actually showed his face.

Barney's scowl deepened at the thought, and he shifted his position on the crate he was leaning against. He regretted it a moment later when the Russian standing next to him - he never had given his name, and Barney had known better than to ask - turned to look at him, glasses glinting faintly in the dim light.

"You seem restless, Mr. Barton. Should I be concerned?"

Barney muttered a curse in his head, but kept his voice purposefully even. "No. Trickshot probably just has him resetting targets for tomorrow. But, he'll be here. And anyway, you've seen what he can do. It's worth the wait."

The other man was apparently satisfied with that and silence fell again.

Long minutes passed, and Barney resisted the urge to move again, not wanting to field another question about his "restlessness." He concentrated instead on the dark shapes he could just make out across from him. Dressed in all black, the three men were almost invisible, and they were all crouched down low. He wondered who they were - military, maybe. Mercs. Russian too, from what he could tell. Either way, they'd been there when he and the suit had hashed out the final details for tonight, and they'd taken up their positions in the tent without a word.

They hadn't moved since.

The suit himself hadn't moved either, though once or twice, he'd pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to polish his glasses, before replacing them and carefully refolding the handkerchief. Just what that was supposed to accomplish in the dark, Barney wasn't sure, but whatever. If the man had the cash to make this whole thing worth the while, he could pass the time tap dancing for all Barney cared.

A stronger breeze hit the tent, making the tarp snap loudly, pulling at the stakes anchoring it, and few happy shouts from the carnival carried with the wind. The sound was an unwelcome reminder that they didn't have forever to get this done, and Barney immediately started debating the best way to make his little brother pay if this went south.

But, just when it was looking like he'd have to hunt the kid down, footsteps could be heard on the gravel outside, and Barney could make out Clint's silhouette through the canvas.

Clint's shadow hesitated. "Barney, you around?"

"Yeah," he called. "I'm here."

Clint obviously knew that something was up - he was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. Still, Barney had been careful never to give the kid a reason not to trust him, and a moment later, the tent flat was pushed back, and Clint stepped inside.

"Barney?"

He heard Clint reach for the tent's makeshift light rig. The moment the space lit up, the mercs were on him.

The man closest to the entrance tried for a tackle, aiming to bring Clint to the ground, but the kid was quick on his feet, and he managed to dodge. The next man who rushed him got a wild punch thrown at him, and he actually staggered back from the blow. Apparently, "The Amazing Hawkeye" had worked up some pretty good muscle with that bow of his.

If things were different, Barney might have been proud.

Clint was drawing back his fist again when his gaze met Barney's, and well, the kid's eyes had always been too sharp for his own good. Barney stared back evenly, his arms folded over his chest, letting that, the lack of reaction, speak for him.

Different emotions swam through Clint's gaze so fast that Barney couldn't name them, though they settled pretty quickly on betrayal. Still, it wasn't quick _enough_, because it was all the soldiers needed to get the upper-hand.

Two of them lunged and grabbed Clint's arms, pulling them roughly behind his back. He thrashed in their grip, letting loose a string of curses, kicking out with his legs, hitting the third man; Clint got a backhand to the face in return. He was dazed long enough from the blow that they managed to get a gag on him, though he started struggling again as soon as he realized what they were doing.

The man next to Barney snapped a quick, irritated command in Russian, and produced a syringe. He tossed it to the merc whose hands were still free, and he wasted no time in using it. He grabbed a fist-full of Clint's hair, forced his head back, and jabbed the needle into his exposed neck.

Clint grunted in pain, growling something unintelligible through the gag as the man pushed the plunger down. Whatever was in that thing must have been strong, though, because Clint's eyelids started fluttering almost immediately, his struggles turning sluggish and uncoordinated, until they stopped altogether.

His bleary eyes found Barney one last time before they finally slipped shut, his head lolling as he slumped over bonelessly in the soldiers' grip.

Barney glanced over at the man in the suit, frowning. "What was that stuff?"

"Merely a sedative. He'll be unconscious for several hours." The man paused, studying Barney critically. "You're not having second thoughts, are you, Mr. Barton? I was hoping it would not be necessary to renegotiate the terms of our arrangement."

Barney shrugged. "I'm just protecting my interests. The deal was that he leaves here in one piece. I don't care what you do with him afterwards, but there's no sense giving him to you if you're just gonna kill him. If you're willing to pay for his skills, someone else could be too. I don't wanna get short-changed."

The Russian man's lips quirked. "I suppose I can appreciate your…how do you Americans say it? Business savvy?"

Barney didn't answer, just watched as the soldiers got to work, binding Clint's wrists and ankles. Kid must have made an impression, because even sedated, his hands were tied behind his back, and they didn't skimp on the rope.

"So," Barney said at last, turning to the Russian in the suit once more, "as promised, 'The Amazing Hawkeye, World's Greatest Marksman,' is yours. You gonna hold up your end?"

The man nodded succinctly. "The equivalent of $35,000 US dollars will be transferred to your account immediately. I must say that our meeting was most fortunate, Mr. Barton. Your brother shows incredible potential. I have no doubt he will be of great use to my organization."

"Uh-huh," Barney agreed absently, his mind already on how to divide up the money he was getting. He had plans - a lot of plans, none of which included the stupid freak show he and his brother called 'home.' He frowned again, and waved a hand at his brother. "You gonna need my help to get the kid out of here? Can't really see you walkin' out the front door with Mr. Circus Star trussed up."

"No, thank you, Mr. Barton. We have our own methods, and we'll be gone long before anyone grows curious. That is, if your timetable is accurate."

Barney didn't miss the challenge in the words. "It's accurate," he assured. "Like I said, right now, everybody's got their hands full with the clean-up and that crowd out there. You've got at least a couple hours before that changes."

"Excellent. Then we certainly don't require your assistance."

Barney nodded, and looked down at his brother again. Clint was still wearing his costume from the show - black pants, with a black and purple vest, covered front-to-back with sequins. He always looked ridiculous dressed that way, but the crowds seemed to like it. The crowds had always liked Clint. A gold mine, Trickshot had called him.

Well, Barney thought, that much at least had turned out to be true. Word on the street had been that some Russians were looking for anybody skilled with weaponry, and after all, a bow was a weapon, though the kid hadn't used it as one yet. But, that aim of his was enough to make him deadly.

Speaking of…

"You said that I won't have to worry about him, right? A few years from now, he's not gonna come after me with a score to settle?"

The Russian smiled coolly. "I assure you, Mr. Barton, that won't be a problem."

"Good."

Barney spared his brother one last glance before he headed for front of the tent, pushed the flaps out of his way, and kept walking.

He didn't look back.

He debated about heading to his trailer to start packing, but he turned towards the carnival instead. It was probably better if he kept up appearances, at least for tonight. He'd never liked working the crowds, but he was less likely to get questions about Clint there, since the kid usually spent most of his time in the big top after a show. Trickshot encouraged that, figuring the audience would be more in awe of "The Amazing Hawkeye" if they didn't see him counting ticket receipts or handing out popcorn.

Barney got the majority of the grunt work…it had been that way ever since the circus figured out they had a "prodigy" on their hands.

The $35,000 Barney had coming would make up for a lot of that, even if he wished the number were higher. He'd certainly been tempted to hold out for more. After all, Clint's skills were valuable, not something you could get just anywhere. But, Barney knew he was really just due a finder's fee, and hadn't wanted to push his luck.

Still, $35,000 was a whole lot more than he'd had before, and that included what he'd have to spend to get out of town. He'd need to hide his trail too, just in case. If anyone bothered to ask, the Barton brothers had taken off for greener pastures, and that was all there was to it. It wasn't really a stretch. Clint _had _gotten offers from a few of the bigger traveling shows, though the kid had turned them all down out of some idiotic sense of loyalty.

'Course, even if the cover story fell through, chances were still good that no one would come looking. The circus world was a small one, with quite a few people who lived just this side of legal. None of the carnies would risk bringing the authorities down on their heads, even to track down their precious rising star.

Barney reached the outskirts of the carnival and stopped, watching the crowds for a minute, trying to decide where to go. Anna usually needed some help with her fortune telling gimmick, but she liked to fuss over him and Clint, and Barney didn't want the old lady getting curious. Marcus was probably his best bet - guy never said more than two words about anything, and his booth was usually busy, so no one would think twice about Barney lending a hand.

Barney started in that direction, but a sharp pin-prick of pain erupted at the base of his spine, and he grunted, stumbling in surprise.

"What the-?"

The words caught as his throat seized suddenly.

He blinked rapidly and tried to take another breath, but it was like sucking air through a straw, and he coughed, his shoulders hunching. That only seemed to make it worse, and Barney doubled over, gasping.

A deep ache flared in his chest, a strange feeling of warmth following it, and the world spun abruptly.

Realization settled in about the same time that the muscles in his throat spasmed.

Barney knew, he _knew_, what this had to be, but the rage was short-lived because he couldn't get enough oxygen, and his focus was quickly narrowing to that and only that. His chest was tight, like it was being squeezed by a vise, the pressure building fast enough that his vision started to blur around the edges. This time, when he stumbled, his hands and knees hit the dirt.

The stinging in his back throbbed, and he struggled to raise his head to see if anyone had noticed what was happening, but no one was looking in his direction, and any noise he'd made was lost in the happy din of the carnival.

His muscles shaking, his gaze darted around, searching for something, anything, _anyone_.

That was when he finally saw her.

She was small and skinny, with fiery red hair that fell around her shoulders in loose waves. She couldn't have been older than twelve, and she was just standing in the shadows, watching him.

Barney tried to draw in enough breath to tell her to go get help, but black spots swam in front of his eyes. His arms gave out and he landed on his side, chest heaving uselessly.

The girl waited another minute before she walked forward silently, her stride oddly purposeful. Barney could only watch hazily as she reached behind him to pluck something from his back, and a small, metallic needle shown briefly in the light before it disappeared up her sleeve.

She stared down at him for a moment longer with cold green eyes, then turned and disappeared into the carnival beyond.

Barney's heart stuttered once, twice, and then stopped.

After that, there was nothing but darkness.

**TBC**

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A/N: This fic came to me originally as a very vivid scene that I just couldn't resist writing. The title is inspired by the biblical story of Joseph, whose brothers sold him into slavery for the equivalent of twenty pieces of silver. Judas betrayed Jesus for the price of a slave as well, though by New Testament times, inflation had pushed the price to thirty pieces of silver.

I hope you enjoyed this first chapter - is enjoyed the right word, lol? - and please let me know what you think!

Ani-maniac494 :)


	2. Chapter 2

Spoilers: No real spoilers for the Avengers in this chapter, some small references to comic characters.

Disclaimer: It's not mine, I'm just borrowing the characters, but I promise I'll return them in one piece. Um…sort of.

A/N: Twenty Pieces of Silver was originally intended to be a one-shot, but I received several reviews asking me to continue, and the plot bunny liked that idea, lol. So, I am now continuing. But, a small warning to readers, I usually make it a rule never to post a multi-chapter that isn't already complete, and I'm breaking that rule with this fic. Because of that, I can't guarantee how long it will be between posts. I will, however, try my best not to keep you waiting too long. :) Chapter 2 picks up directly after the events of Chapter 1, immediately after Barney's death.

A/N2: My sincerest thanks to my dear friend, CrazyAni, for her help with the Russian translation and terms. :)

As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace, and his many blessings.

I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

* * *

**Chapter 2 **

The smell of cotton candy and popcorn tickled the girl's nose as she made her way through the crowd. She smiled, and added a slight bounce to her step as she took in the sights, knowing that anyone watching her would expect it.

But it wasn't entirely an act.

She had never seen a circus in person…at least, not that she remembered, and though her mission hadn't included the show itself, the carnival was enough to satisfy her curiosity. Brightly colored tents and booths formed a thoroughfare of reds, yellows, blues, greens, purples, and oranges, all shining in the glow of countless lights. The notes of a calliope filled the air, mingling with laughter and conversation and the lower hum of electric generators.

It was so different…not at all like the compound in Russia, which was quiet and solemn, the surrounding tundra rugged and barren, a mix of browns, whites, and grays.

She stopped to watch a contortionist on a nearby platform. The woman lay down on her stomach, then arched her back so that her legs eventually came to rest far over her shoulders, her feet flat on the floor in front of her; the crowd surrounding the small stage watched with amazement, and the girl could not help but stare with them. Her trainers demanded flexibility, but did not expect _that_, and she was glad, because she was not certain she could do it even if they ordered her to.

"Excuse me, dear," a voice behind her said.

The girl turned, ducking her head in apology and using the opportunity to assess the woman standing a few feet away. She was elderly, dressed in a long black robe that was decorated with an intricate floral pattern, and curly brown hair, obviously dyed, framed her face. She wore a hat that matched her robes, a silk rose adorning one side. Several strings of beads hung around her neck, complimented by long earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders.

She looked like one of the Roma.

But, whether that was a reflection of the woman's heritage, or simply the costume she chose to wear, it was impossible to tell. Hopefully, it would not become mission-relevant.

"Sorry," the girl offered aloud, conscious of the way her lips and tongue formed the consonants. _General American, spoken in the Western and Midwestern regions of the United States. Less distinctive than the dialects common in the South and North-East. _"I didn't realize I would be in anyone's way."

The woman smiled. "Not a problem, dear. What's your name?"

"Natalie Rushman," she answered, giving the name she'd been told to if she were questioned.

"Well, Natalie, I'm Anna. Are you enjoying yourself?"

She nodded, and looked down again, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear in feigned shyness.

"Glad to hear it." The woman smiled again, studying her. "You know, dear, I'm good at reading people - it's a gift you could say. And there's something special about you…I have a feeling you'll do something great one day. Come to my booth later if you want to hear more." The old woman winked, and started on her way again, beads rattling softly as she moved.

The girl waited until she was certain that the woman wouldn't return, then continued forward, careful, this time, not to become distracted.

She reached the outskirts of the carnival a few minutes later. The parking lot was little more than the remains of the open field the circus had laid claim to, and it was dark, beyond the reach of the lights from the carnival behind her.

She walked past several cars until she reached a large, windowless gray van, parked in a distant corner. She strode to the back of the vehicle, knocked three times, then paused and knocked again, and the door slid open to admit her.

She stepped inside, the van dipping faintly as she did so. She wasn't surprised to see the Polkovnik waiting for her, sitting on the bench facing the door; his glasses were in one hand, his handkerchief in the other as he polished the lenses.

"Это сделано?" _Is it done?_

"Да." _Yes._

"Отлично. Пойдемте отсюда прежде чем его тело найдут." _Excellent. Then let us leave before the body is found._

The girl simply nodded, made her way past the unconscious figure on the floor, and took her seat near the Polkovnik. One of the guards slid the door closed behind her, blocking the circus from view, and the engine came to life a moment later, rocks hitting the bottom of the vehicle as they started for the road.

As a few, quiet minutes passed, the girl let her eyes wander around the interior of the van.

Two of the guards were seated in the back, one across from her, and the other next to the Polkovnik. They occupied themselves with cleaning the closest weapon at hand, occasionally exchanging a few words with the driver. She knew that their presence was due at least in part to hers - she was trusted, but that trust extended only so far. Still, the guards paid little attention to her now….perhaps following the Polkovnik's example. He had put away his handkerchief, replaced his glasses, and retrieved a pad of paper and a pen, which he used to write his notes. But, every few minutes, he would pause in his work, and glance thoughtfully at the floor of the van, where his latest acquisition lay.

Curious, she followed his gaze.

The boy rested a few feet away, on his side, facing her. He was perhaps a few years older than she was, and he was dressed oddly, in black pants and a black and purple vest, decorated with sequins; from this angle, she could see that the sequins on his back were sewn into the shape of some type of bird, its wings stretching over his shoulders. He had short, unruly dark-blonde hair, and a lean but muscular frame, one that promised it would only improve with age. Procedure dictated that he be sedated, and that had clearly been done, but ropes still bound his wrists and ankles, and a gag still covered his mouth.

She frowned imperceptibly.

News of him had come through the Bratva…apparently, they had a local contact who had first-hand knowledge of the boy's skill. She did not like the Bratva - they were rowdy and undisciplined, but the Polkovnik seemed to find them useful enough, and he'd agreed to meet the American who'd answered their "advertisement." She had not been allowed to attend that meeting, but the Polkovnik had seemed intrigued when he'd returned, and his interest had only grown when he'd gone to observe the boy himself.

She wondered just what the Polkovnik saw in him…what he'd seen in her, once.

After all, she had not always belonged to the program, though what she recalled of her life outside of it was hazy, jumbled, and brief. A woman's voice, a scream, and smoke. She did not know what it all meant…still, she knew, somehow she knew, those were memories from _before_.

She guarded those memories, fragmented as they were, relegating them to a distant corner of her mind, and examining them only on those rare occasions when she was free from scrutiny. Had her life been anything like this boy's? She wished, suddenly, that he were awake, so she could speak to him…but she clamped down on that desire as quickly as it came. Thoughts like those were dangerous, and she had allowed her mind to wander too freely already. Her superiors would not have been pleased, had they been aware of it.

She looked away from the boy deliberately, choosing to focus on the wall across from her instead, studying the pattern of the shadows the metal grating cast in the limited light. Her body swayed slightly with the movement of the van as the driver slowed, and turned. It was only the first of many turns, she remembered, in a long, winding route that would eventually lead them to the private airfield the Polkovnik had rented, and the plane that would carry them back to Russian soil.

A little over a half an hour had passed when a soft groan caught her attention, barely audible over the sound of the engine, and she tensed. No one else seemed to have heard it - the Polkovnik was once again absorbed in his notes, and the guards were laughing quietly, sharing a joke she did not understand and could not appreciate.

The sound came again, louder by the barest margin, and she was certain this time that it was the boy. She opened her mouth to alert the guards, but before she could, the boy's eyes opened.

She couldn't explain why, but the warning died on her tongue, and she found herself staring instead.

His eyes were a striking blue-gray, with small flecks of teal, green, and gold. For a long moment, he gazed up at the van's ceiling, unseeing, and then his eyes slipped closed once more. She waited, but his eyes did not open again, and his breathing continued its slow rhythm under the sedative's influence.

It was harder, this time, to turn her gaze away, but she did so nonetheless. As interested as she was in the boy, it was not her place to ask questions. She existed to serve the Motherland, to further the goals of the Red Room. Soon, this boy would do the same.

And in the end, that was all she needed to know.

**TBC**

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A/N: Notes on the Russian terms used:

Roma - A subgroup of the Romani people found in Russia, also known as the gypsies.

Polkovnik - The equivalent of "Colonel." Can also be used to mean "Administrator."

Bratva - The Russian Mafia.

I hope you enjoyed the fic and please let me know what you think!

Ani-maniac494 :)


	3. Chapter 3

Spoilers: No new spoilers in this chapter.

Disclaimer: I'm a poor college student with very little money. Please don't sue.

A/N: My apologies for this taking over a month. Life has been very hectic. But, finally, here is the next chapter of Twenty Pieces of Silver. Once again, my very sincere thanks to my dear friend, CrazyAni, for her help with the Russian translation. :)

As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace, and his many blessings.

I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

* * *

Last time:

_She opened her mouth to alert the guards, but before she could, the boy's eyes opened._

_She couldn't explain why, but the warning died on her tongue, and she found herself staring instead._

_His eyes were a striking blue-gray, with small flecks of teal, green, and gold. For a long moment, he gazed up at the van's ceiling, unseeing, and then his eyes slipped closed once more. She waited, but his eyes did not open again, and his breathing continued its slow rhythm under the sedative's influence._

_It was harder, this time, to turn her gaze away, but she did so nonetheless. As interested as she was in the boy, it was not her place to ask questions. She existed to serve the Motherland, to further the goals of the Red Room. Soon, this boy would do the same._

_And in the end, that was all she needed to know._

* * *

**Chapter 3**

The blow landed on her side with a crack, one she felt as well as heard.

The girl automatically stifled the cry that rose in her throat, and rolled away instead, avoiding her opponent's next strike. She came up in a crouch, eyes narrowed, ignoring the fierce ache that flared with every breath.

_Conquer pain or it will conquer you._

Her opponent circled her, fists raised, her movements calm, predatory. She was one of the older female trainees, pale, with long, brown hair that fell to her mid-back. She towered over the girl by several inches, and she knew how to use her height to her advantage.

But, the girl was faster.

She lunged forward suddenly, sweeping her opponent's legs out from under her with a practiced motion. The older girl grunted as she hit the mat, and the girl leapt on top of her, pinning her there. She raised her elbow to strike at the other's girl's throat, expecting their trainer to call the match before the potentially fatal hit could be delivered.

But the order to stop didn't come.

Her arm wavered.

"Достаточно." _Enough._

The girl stood obediently, and turned to face the trainer, her gaze fixed on a point over his shoulder, her expression carefully blank.

She could sense his displeasure before he spoke.

"Вы выиграли матч, но не нанесли смертельный удар. Объясните." _You won the match, but did not make the killing blow. Explain._

"Я не знал, что у меня было разрешение на использование силы со смертельным исходом." _I was not aware that I had permission to use lethal force._

The trainer studied her for a long moment, as though weighing her answer. "На войне ваши противники будут не столь деликатны. Дрогнете и умрёте." _In the field, your opponents will not be so considerate. Hesitate and die._

It was both a critique and a warning, one the girl heard clearly. "Понял." _Understood._

There was a pause as the trainer gave her one, last assessing glance, and then offered a quick wave of his hand. "Вы уволены." _You are dismissed. _

He did not add that she was authorized to visit medical, but the girl was not surprised by the omission. If anything, it was less than she had expected for her failure. As she started for the door, she heard the trainer berating the older girl for her own poor performance during the match - in all likelihood, she would not receive the same leniency.

The trainer's voice grew distant as the girl started down the gray corridor. It was late in the evening, and the few windows she passed were filled only with the night sky, though the base itself was awash with artificial light. The final meal of the day had been provided a few hours before, so the hallways were empty, the rest of the staff and the other trainees finishing the days' activities elsewhere.

She came to the end of the corridor and turned to the right, headed for the communal showers, the familiar echo of the guard's footsteps following behind her. But, she was trusted enough that when she arrived at the stalls, they waited outside in the hallway, willing to allow her the luxury of privacy.

She undressed quickly, eager to ease the ache in her side with cool water.

It wasn't nearly as effective as ice would have been, but by the time her allotted ten minutes were up, it had at least numbed the pain slightly. She paused to examine the injury, running her fingers over the already vivid bruise. In all probability, she had at least one cracked rib, but she had received enough medical training to know that at this point, it was simply painful, not dangerous. She would not have to worry about complications, even if she never received treatment from the base's doctors.

She combed through her hair, braided it, and changed into a fresh uniform, easing the gray shirt over her head just as the guards opened the door. She stepped out into the hall, careful to keep any surprise from her features when they assumed positions in front of her, and instead of taking her to the barracks, led her in the opposite direction, to the cells.

Unease crept up her spine, but she forced the feeling away. If she had been due further punishment, the trainer would have informed her of that fact, so most likely, this was something else…perhaps preparation for a new mission. Trainees were sometimes separated from the rest of the population before they were sent out, and she hadn't left the base since returning from America two weeks earlier.

The guards stopped in front of a cell near the end of the corridor, and opened the door, motioning for her to enter. She did so, and the guards closed the door behind her, the hinges screeching loudly.

The sound of their footsteps followed soon after, quieting as they drew further away, until at last, the only noise the girl heard was the sound of her own breathing. Her eyes swept the cell automatically. Like most of the base, the floor was concrete, but the walls were the same thick metal as the door. It was windowless, with only a small opening in the door offering a narrow view of the hallway outside. Vents, several inches high, marked each side of the room, running the length of the walls and circulating the air.

The cell itself was bare, aside from a simple bunk which faced the door, a plain brown blanket covering it. She was tempted to pull the blanket from the bed and cover herself in it - the cell was not terribly warm, and she was still chilled from the shower she had taken. But, even though she saw no cameras, it was still possible that they were watching her somehow, and she knew better than to show any weakness.

She walked steadily across the room, and sat down on the bunk, drawing her knees up to her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around them. And so she waited, intending not to lay down until the official call for lights out.

She was startled when she heard noise in corridor - shouting.

She frowned faintly as the noise grew louder, the words becoming more distinct. Whoever was shouting was speaking English, and they were cursing - colorful curses she had yet to learn officially, though one of the guards had thought it amusing to "tutor" her.

A shoe squeaked on the concrete floor, and a string of Russian curses ensued, followed by the familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh. A pained grunt echoed loudly, and the yelling quieted, but the noise did not. She did not rise from her bunk, but saw several guards pass in front of her cell, dragging something…someone.

He was still struggling - she could hear by his voice that he was male - but the guards managed to push him into the cell beside hers. They closed the door quickly, the metal reverberating with a clang.

It wasn't until the guards had left again that she heard a soft groan, and the sound of a body scraping slowly along the concrete floor, finally coming to settle on what was, most likely, a bunk like her own.

A few minutes passed in silence, until the lights of the base flickered once, twice, and then cut out, the signal for sleep.

The girl uncurled her legs, and started to stand so that she could slip beneath the blanket on her bed, but she had been still for too long, and her side had stiffened. Pain flared with her movement, and she grunted lowly, the noise escaping before she could stop it.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

The girl froze.

"Hello?"

The girl did not answer. Unauthorized interaction between members of the program was strictly prohibited and she would not bring wrath down upon her head, even if the boy in the cell beside her was foolish enough to risk it.

She ignored him, and set to work on her bunk. Unfortunately, her side protested again, and her sharply indrawn breath was apparently loud enough for him to hear.

"Hey, are you hurt? You…you seem like you could be."

Her eyes narrowed. Was this a test? It wasn't out of the question, though it had been some time since her trainers had felt in necessary to gauge her reactions and adherence to protocol. Perhaps her recent failure had made them suspicious.

If that was the case, she would prove her worth. Her loyalty. She would report this boy in the morning.

"Look," he began a little louder, loud enough that someone else was likely to hear, "I know you're there, and I just-"

"Quiet!" she hissed automatically in English…then immediately cursed her lapse. She waited for the guards to appear, to escort her to the Polkovnik for a reprimand, and perhaps worse, but the hallway outside remained empty.

And the boy…the boy continued to talk.

"You speak English." His voice, now a great deal softer, was a mix of relief and surprise. "I wasn't sure anybody here did. All I've heard is Russian. At last, I'm pretty sure it's Russian."

The majority of trainees and staff knew English - it was important, the Polkovnik said, to be familiar with the ways of the enemy. But, if he had ordered that this boy not be spoken to in the language, then she had violated that command as well. She closed her eyes in resignation - so many failures in one day. She would surely be punished now.

"Are you American?" the boy questioned, a note of hope in his voice. "You sound American."

She opened her eyes to glare at the wall of her cell, the one that adjoined his, already blaming him for what she would have to endure.

"It is easy to sound American," she boasted, allowing her natural Russian accent to color the words.

She took a sort of vindictive pleasure in the disappointed silence that followed.

It lasted long enough that she wondered if she had quieted him for good, and started to work at her bunk once again.

She paused when an odd noise caught her attention; there was a grunt, not pained this time, but full of effort, and she automatically sought the source of the sound. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw it.

The boy had jumped up to grip the small ledge of the vent in his cell, and pulled himself up so that he could peer at her through it. The cells were lit only dimly now, in allowance for the night, but she could make out his silhouette, and his eyes…familiar eyes she knew to be blue-gray, with small flecks of teal, green, and gold.

It was the boy. The one the Polkovnik had taken an interest in, just two weeks before.

The position must have been difficult to hold, because he dropped back to the floor a moment later.

"Look," he began, "I get that you probably don't want to talk to me, that you don't want to get in trouble or whatever, but you're the first person I've had anything resembling a conversation with, and I just… No one will tell me anything. I don't know what they want from me. I'm nobody. I'm from Iowa. I'm a carnie, that's it. It's not like they can ransom me or something." His voice took on an odd note. "There's nobody who'd pay anything to get me back."

She did not answer immediately, considering her options. The American mission was still vivid in her mind, though she knew it would not always be. In a way, she was surprised that she had been allowed to keep the memories this long. Nonetheless, she still recalled how much she had wished to speak with this boy. She had the chance now, and at this point, if she were punished for it, it was unlikely that answering his questions would make much difference.

"You are…a carnie?" she repeated at last, tasting the unfamiliar word on her tongue, guessing its meaning. "You worked at a circus?"

"Yeah, I do."

He seemed determined to ignore the past tense, and she did not try to correct him. He would learn.

"What did you do with the circus?"

"Archery. I do trick shots with my bow."

"You are good?"

"Yeah. I am." There was no hint of ego in the answer, just simple confidence, and that, more than the words themselves, told her that he was speaking the truth.

"Then, that is why they want you."

In all honesty, she was not certain why the Polkovnik would be so impressed by someone skilled with an archaic weapon. Other weapons were far more efficient. But, if he were so effective with a bow, perhaps, the Polkovnik felt he would be equally skilled in other areas.

There was a pause before the boy spoke again. "So they…they want to keep me here."

"Yes."

"How long?"

This time, she did not respond, and that, it seemed, was enough.

"Oh," he said a moment later, his voice subdued. "Right."

There was a longer silence, and the girl shook herself, realizing that she had spent several minutes standing over her bed, one corner of the blanket held uselessly in her hand. She pulled it back, but did not lie down, sitting once again instead.

She heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of the boy sitting back down on his own bunk.

"What's your name?" he wondered.

The question caught her off-guard. She had never been asked that, not here, where she had never been given a name to offer.

Iris Montgomery. Cecilia Fasjovik. Natalie Rushman.

They were the few names she could recall from the missions she had carried out - missions when her mind had been her own. But there was one other name she knew.

Natalia Alinova Romanova.

She had seen it in her medical file once, when the staff hadn't known she was conscious. She repeated it to herself sometimes, but it never quite seemed to fit - like a coat that was too big, or too small…or perhaps it was a coat tailored for another girl altogether. But, it was hers, not something that been given to her by the Red Room, and for that reason alone, she hid the knowledge away, like she did those brief glimpses of her past.

She would not utter that name inside these walls.

The boy, oddly enough, seemed to understand. "If you don't want to tell me, that's okay. How 'bout I call you Natasha? We had some Russian acrobats once, and one of 'em was named Natasha. That's a good name, right?"

She did not respond, but he apparently took that as assent.

"Natasha it is. I'm Clint." He scoffed softly. "Wish I could say it's nice to meet you, but-" she heard him kick the wall of his cell, the sound echoing.

She tensed, but as before, the guards did not appear. Perhaps they were safe after all…perhaps, somehow, their conversation had gone unnoticed.

"I'm gonna get out of here, you know," the boy - Clint - declared suddenly. "I'm gonna get out of here somehow and go back home. The circus…they want me there. At least I think they do, even if my brot-" She heard him swallow. "I don't think they knew. I don't think they knew what he was planning."

She wasn't sure what he meant, but no response seemed to be required of her, so she didn't offer one.

"Maybe you can come with me. You'd like it - they're good people. They took me an' my brot-" he faltered again. "They took me in. Anna, especially. She's always looked after me. She's psychic. At least, that's what she says. She tells fortunes. But, you know, she plays the Lotto every week, and she never wins."

He seemed to be talking mostly for himself now, but she let him.

"And Jack, he's a magician. He taught me how to pick locks, and hustle poker. He was gonna teach me to pick pockets, but Anna wouldn't let him…said it was a sure fire way to get me sent to juvie. Rick and his wife Janie, they do the high wire act…"

His voice washed over her as she finally lay down on her bunk, pulling the blanket up, and closing her eyes against the pain from her ribs. She tried to ignore it, and let herself be carried away by his words, her mind filled with the sights and sounds she remembered from the mission, his details painting a fuller picture.

By the time she fell asleep, her ribs had ceased to hurt at all.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the fic and please let me know what you think! Just so you're aware, I will soon be moving, so I will most likely not be posting during July and possibly into August. But, please bear with me, I will do my best to update as soon as I can.

Take care and God bless!

Ani-maniac494 :)


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